The Flesh Cartel - Episode #4: Consequences

and clean
    and healthy. Feel free to explore it. To use what calls to you.”
    Food. Toilet. Sink, hopefully toothbrush. Bed. That was all Dougie wanted at this point. Maybe a
    book. God, he’d give his left leg to be sitting around bored out of his mind and trying to read
    academic articles now.
    Nikolai turned and left before Dougie could ask any questions. But that was okay—he’d
    interpreted Nikolai well enough. Get clean. Brush your teeth. Shave. Look your best for me.
    Anticipate your master’s desires.
    Not that he gave a fuck about his “master’s” desires. But it’d feel good to scrape this scruff off
    his face—he couldn’t grow a beard in evenly anyway—and he had no intention of giving Nikolai any
    excuse to punish him. Especially since Nikolai wasn’t asking anything outrageous of him right now.
    He found what he needed to shave and brush his teeth in the bathroom, and did both after gulping
    down what felt like half a gallon of water straight from the tap. There was a shower tub, too, but even if he hadn’t just had a bath, he probably wouldn’t have used it. He just couldn’t stomach the thought
    that maybe, somewhere, Nikolai might be watching. He might have to walk around naked 24/7, but
    that didn’t mean he was going to jump at the chance to let the man watch him soap himself up. Which
    was possibly the most pointless distinction he’d ever made in his life, but here, it was all he had.
    By the time he was finished with what he could stomach to do in the bathroom, a covered tray
    was waiting for him in the main room.
    On the floor.
    Dougie was stooping to pick it up with the intention of carrying it over to the table when he
    realized . . . What if it was on the floor for a reason ? His stomach churned. He was so fucking hungry.
    He didn’t have the time or inclination to agonize over this.
    Anticipate your master’s desires. If I were a sick fuck on a power trip, would I want my victim
    to eat at a table like a normal human being?
    So why provide a table at all? some naive, dignified part of him replied.
    It’s a test. It’s all a test. This whole fucking room. He’s watching from somewhere. Waiting to
    see what I’ll do. I’m a rat in an electrified maze.
    He sat on the floor in front of the tray. Cast a gaze around the room, searching out the camera so
    he’d have somewhere concrete to look at and try to say telepathically, See, asshole? I’m a good dog.
    Eating on the floor just like you hoped.
    But there were no cameras that he could see, and he was fucking starving, and his telepathic
    message seemed like something that would earn him the ominous “consequences.”
    Whatever was on the tray smelled amazing. And maybe he hadn’t seen any cameras, but he was
    sure they were there, somewhere, and he planned to behave accordingly. He turned his attention back
    to the tray. Stared at it like the puzzle it surely was. Innocuous. Plastic cafeteria tray with an opaque plastic lid.
    He pulled the lid off. Revealed two cereal bowls and nothing else. One held what was almost
    certainly milk. The other a thin soup—mostly broth, with some very small bits of vegetables and
    chicken, and saltines crumbled at the top. No more than a cup’s worth in either bowl.
    No spoon. There was a nice linen napkin, though.
    No spoon. Was he supposed to pick the bowls up and drink from them?
    Of course not. You’re a dog. His “pet.” You eat on the floor like any other pet would. With
    your mouth .
    “No.” Dougie shook his head, tore his eyes from the soup, the milk, tantalizing as they both were.
    “No.”
    Yes. And by the way, you’re talking to yourself.
    Well, hardly any surprise to be going crazy under circumstances like these . He wished he knew
    what Nikolai wanted of him. Wished he’d been given clear instructions to follow. Bad enough he had
    a master; it hardly seemed fair that he’d be punished because he’d failed to anticipate the desires of a man he’d just met. The thought made him queasy, panicky; he was breathing too fast, heart pounding
    painfully against his ribs. This was fucking ridiculous—he was having a panic attack over how to eat soup .
    Fuck it. He wasn’t taking any chances, and he wasn’t going to let his pride get in the way of the
    first meal he’d had in days—or more like a week, actually, if all that patchy hair he’d shaved off his
    face was anything to go by. Or the pain in his gut, clenching and churning as if digesting itself.